It was late summer, and the weather was warm and sticky. You couldn't see the sun. The sky was white-grey. It felt like there could be a storm later.
That might have been why the boathouse in Oxford was so empty – the weather was rather too…well, too "English" for the tourists, and the students were away for the summer. But Chris and I had driven this far, we had prepared a picnic, and we were determined to spend the afternoon on the river, storm or no storm. We paid our deposit, picked up the pole and the paddle and some cushions for the punt, and found our punt tied to the riverbank. I'd never seen a punt "in the flesh" before, and I was surprised at how long, low and narrow it was.
I settled into the bottom of the punt while Chris untied us and pushed us off. I very quickly realised why it was that the women in punts in the films I'd seen were always reclining so far beneath the man. It was impossible to sit up straight. I had to stay in a semi-reclined pose with my legs straight out in front of me, on the bottom of the punt. It felt comfortable.
It was Chris's first time in a punt, too, and as he gamely tried to get the punt away from the bank and turned to head off down the river, I couldn't help smiling at his efforts. Luckily, the boy from the boathouse started shouting instructions. He told Chris to push off slowly and then use the pole as a rudder. Soon we were out on the river, zigzagging slowly away from the boathouse. We weren't getting very far very quickly. Chris was sweating, swearing and grunting. When we crashed into a tree overhanging the bank, I couldn't help laughing. Chris didn't seem to think it was all quite so funny. I tried to stop myself from smiling and I concentrated on the surroundings. It was so good to be out of the city. It was quiet here, and warm, and the river was moving slowly beneath us as we moved past the willows and the fields along the banks.
Soon, Chris had got into a rhythm. He was looking more relaxed – contented, even – pleased with himself, even - and we were moving slowly and silently through the dark water that was just inches from me. I trailed my hand in the cool water and watched the occasional swan or pair of ducks floating quietly past us. I looked up at Chris. It felt like he was towering above me, standing in front of me on the raised end of the punt, letting the dripping pole slip though his hands easily into the water, twisting it slightly to dislodge it from the mud on the bottom of the river, and pushing us off, then raising the wet pole again.
There was something engaging about the way the pole slipped wetly through his hands, leaving filmy little rivulets to slip over his fingers as they gripped its smooth surface. His shirt was splashed with water and his wet forearms were bare. He was moving with real assurance now, and something about the way he was using his body, smoothly but powerfully, made me feel a rush of something halfway between love and lust for him. We smiled at each other. We were both happy. We were both relaxing, shaking off the week and the city.
We didn't talk much. We moved slowly along the river for an hour or so, just taking in the scenery and the feeling of being on the water. I found myself watching his wet forearms as he twisted the pole and pushed off. Watching the muscles moving smoothly against each other under his tanned, wet skin. I had that feeling that was somewhere between love and lust again.
We stopped between the soft, green bank and the branches of an overhanging willow. Not without Chris getting his shirt and his hair and his pole tangled in the branches. By now, though, he was laughing with me. After a few expletives, we got free of the outer branches and into a position between them and the bank, hidden from the opposite bank of the river with its footpath. Just beyond the bank on our side was a field with a few sheep. They ignored us. When the punt was up tight against the bank, Chris took the pole and screwed it into the mud against the water side of the punt, keeping us secured against the bank.
Chris moved down into the middle of the punt and opened the hamper. We drank some cold orange juice and ate some of the cold chicken and olives and bread. Some ducks came along and we gave them some bread. We nibbled some more at the food. The sky hadn't cleared, and the air was still warm and heavy.
I started feeling drowsy. Chris cleared away the remains of the picnic and beckoned me over to him. I moved along the bottom of the punt until I was reclining against him, my head on his shoulder and my arm across him. He was still damp from the water on the pole, but he felt warm and solid and he smelled wonderful – a familiar mix of sweat and Chanel and the smell of his skin and hair. I closed my eyes.
